


Can't hear

by nutsforwinter



Series: Close [3]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:21:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2001939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutsforwinter/pseuds/nutsforwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Christ! Fuck!” he gasps, or so Wrench reads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't hear

It's been almost a year since Wrench first met Numbers, yet during that time he hasn't learned all that much about the man. Of course, there are little pieces which seem like they should come together to make up a coherent picture, but somehow they don't. Maybe the picture is too large and the pieces he has gathered are too few and far apart. Or, as Wrench is beginning to suspect, Numbers is withholding the critical pieces without any intention of letting him have them. At any rate, the only thing that Wrench has come to know for certain is that Numbers' temper is less like a short fuse than a pressure-triggered landmine.

And right now, Numbers is under pressure. Wrench can sense something is wrong when he returns from the dumpster. Numbers is standing by the open trunk of the car, the contents of which Wrench has just finished throwing out. His eyebrows are furrowed a little more deeply than usual, and his mouth is twisted into a silent grimace. The signs of an imminent storm.

Wrench comes around to Numbers’ side and follows his partner’s gaze into the empty trunk. It’s spotless, as far as he can see, although the black interior hides bloodstains exceedingly well. He lets Numbers have a few more moments to himself, then waves his hand up and down to get his attention.

 _What’s the matter?_ he asks when Numbers finally spares him a glare.

 _It won’t close,_ he signs, teeth bared, hands slashing through the air. To demonstrate, he slams the lid down and watches it pop right back up. He throws his hands into the air, no longer in communication, and Wrench can see his lips moving as he turns his eyes toward a higher power, albeit in a not-so-suppliant manner. “Goddammit!”

Although he doesn’t dare show it, Wrench finds it a little comical the way Numbers works himself up over the most insignificant of things. During assignments, he is immutable, his face masked by a thin smile and his speech always calm. Botch a job, and he might sulk and refuse to speak with Wrench for a day or two. But in between jobs is when Numbers best showcases his temper which a feather could set off. Usually this is dealt with by drinking, which has a mellowing effect on Numbers. But once, Wrench came out of the bathroom of a bar to find him beating the living shit out of a complete stranger, while bystanders were either paralyzed by the crushing weight of collective responsibility or just too drunk to care. When he pulled him off the poor bastard (who, as Numbers later admitted sheepishly, had scuffed his shoe and refused to apologize), it was a struggle even for him to restrain the smaller hit man, he was flailing so wildly. It was the victim's misfortune that the damage to the shoe was done before Numbers had a chance to get any amount of alcohol into his system.

Whether throwing these tantrums is Numbers’ way of giving release to pent-up stress from his line of work, or if he is actually more at ease when he has an excuse to break a man’s nose before putting a bullet through his brain, Wrench figures he needs at least another year to decide.

So instead of allowing himself the smile he feels tugging at the corner of his mouth, Wrench carefully composes his face and tries to be helpful.

_ Let me have a look. _

Numbers begrudgingly steps aside, but stays close, as if determined not to let the problem out of his sight. Wrench lightly pushes the trunk lid down a couple of times, testing it. Sure enough, something isn’t catching. Maybe the mechanism has seen one too many trunk abductions than it could handle. Each time he tries to shut it the lid defiantly opens back up.

After the third time, he lifts the lid higher, preparing to slam it down with force. Just as he starts to lean into it, he sees Numbers’ hand darting into his field of vision. It’s too late to stop.

The car shakes with the impact, but the trunk lolls back open. No one else is around to witness Numbers spinning around and doubling over, cradling his hand and shouting, his face turning first red, then pale.

“Christ! Fuck!” he gasps, or so Wrench reads.

For a moment, Wrench is so stunned, he can do nothing but stare. Eventually he approaches his partner, without braving to touch him.

 _Are you all right?_ he asks. He can already see the answer.

“No, you asshole!” Wrench has seen this sequence of words on his lips often enough to recognize them immediately. Numbers' eyes, glinting darkly with fury, seem black against his sheet-white face. He's still speaking aloud, but begins to sign along with his uninjured right hand. _“My fucking hand is B-R-O-K-E-N!”_

Wrench knows better than to take anything personally from his partner-in-crime, but it’s easier said than done, especially considering the number of times they have been left the only ones in the room standing alive. His face must have betrayed his indignation, because Numbers appears ever so slightly abashed.

 _I’m sorry,_ he says, signing everything now. He’s reluctant, and still angry, but he means it. _I asked you to wait,_ he hesitates, and wiggles his hand held horizontally with pointed index finger in little circles in front of his mouth, presumably to clarify that he had spoken using his voice. He shakes his head in self-admonition. _I forgot you can’t hear me._

It takes Wrench a full second to realize what he has just heard. What does he mean, "forgot"?

 _What was it?_ Wrench asks after the pause.

Numbers has gone back to nursing his broken hand. Now, looking pointedly at Wrench to make sure he is in the clear, he reaches with his right hand into the hinge of the trunk. He pulls out the remains of a cut zip tie. Wrench stares at it, dumbfounded. They must have left it sitting on top of the trunk, then somehow it must have wound its way around the hinge when Numbers opened it just now, preventing the lid from shutting completely.

His partner is also staring at the object between his fingers, with an intensity that might set it on fire were it a more flammable substance. But Wrench can see that the pain in his hand has somewhat dampened his temper. His eyes have quieted down to a smolder, and his cursing looks much more subdued as he tosses the piece of plastic, shuts the trunk successfully, then gets in the passenger seat.

Wrench promptly follows and sets himself down behind the wheel. Numbers has already donned his sunglasses over his still-pale face and washed a healthy bunch of painkillers down with cold coffee, wincing at the bitter taste. His hand, beginning to swell, is resting in the crook of his right elbow. He exhales heavily then catches Wrench looking at him.

 _That's the last time we're using Z-I-P-T-I-E-S._ he says. _D-U-C-T-T-A-P-E is cheaper anyway._ Wrench can't tell, not through the sunglasses, if Numbers is being serious.

When Numbers sees that Wrench hasn’t looked away, he waves him off. _I'm fine._

 _Sorry,_ Wrench apologizes, even though he can see it’s not what Numbers wants to hear.

Sure enough, he frowns and shakes his head with deliberate slowness. _It’s not your F-A-U-L-T,_ he signs emphatically.

Great. Is Numbers, the one whose hand he has just broken, trying to comfort _him_? Wrench can’t get rid of the feeling that he’s being coddled, like some fucking kid.

Of course it isn’t his fault. It also isn’t his fault that Numbers orders Wrench’s food for him every time they go out together; that he constantly takes up the burden of looking over Wrench’s shoulder; that he regularly bursts capillaries in his eyes out of frustration that comes with arguing in ASL with Wrench, and consequently looks like he has cried himself to sleep the previous night; that in a critical moment he took a bullet in his ass and still can’t sit in the car for more than an hour at a time. It isn’t his fault that the syndicate saw fit to tie Numbers down with a rookie like Wrench. It isn’t his fault he is deaf.

 _Now stop dicking around and drive me to a hospital,_ says Numbers, interrupting his thoughts, and settles down to sleep.

Wrench knows that it isn’t his fault. He also knows that he doesn’t want pity, least of all from Numbers. How long is it going to take before he acknowledges Wrench as a capable equal, someone indispensable to the job? No, he doesn’t need pity. What he needs from his partner is respect.

He can’t tell Numbers any of this. Not now, with his eyes hidden behind dark glasses and his head languidly tilted back against the headrest.

So he settles for shoving his extended middle finger to within inches from Numbers' face. He’s pretty sure his eyes are closed, but it doesn't matter terribly much.

As he drives off in search of medical assistance, he can vividly recall Numbers signing: _I forgot you can’t hear me._

He shakes his head, as if to dislodge the thought with the physical motion, and tries to focus on the road.


End file.
